The First Lesson of Fear

The mountains of Kyushu had become a different world. The familiar paths felt alien, the silent forests seemed to hold a new, predatory watchfulness. For Lieutenant Tanaka Isoroku and the twenty men under his command, the land itself had become their greatest weapon and their heaviest burden. They lay concealed on a pine-forested ridge, observing the country villa below. It was an elegant estate, with graceful, sloping roofs and serene rock gardens, a place of peace that now sat squarely in the crosshairs of a new and ugly war.

Kenji, the young farmer's son whose idealism was being chipped away with each passing day, lay beside Tanaka, his knuckles white where he gripped his rifle. "Lieutenant, I still do not understand," he whispered, his voice tight with confusion and distaste. "The people in that house… they are old. They are Japanese. They are not the enemy."

"Their son-in-law is the enemy, Kenji," Tanaka replied, his voice a low, hard rasp. He did not take his eyes from the villa. "Their son-in-law is the traitor Tanaka Kenji, the dog who now wears the title of 'Governor' and licks the boots of the Chinese Emperor. Lord Kuroda believes the dog might finally listen to his true masters if we hold a knife to the throat of his family." He finally turned to look at the boy, his eyes cold. "This is not about honor anymore. This is not about a fair fight. This is about leverage. This is about finding our enemy's heart and squeezing it until he capitulates. Learn that lesson, or you will not survive this war."

Kenji fell silent, the cold logic of it settling in his stomach like a stone.

The raid was planned with meticulous, deadly precision. Tanaka had watched the villa for a full day, noting the patrol patterns of the governor's dozen personal guards—arrogant city men who were careless in the countryside. Under the cloak of a moonless night, Tanaka's men moved like ghosts through the woods. They did not use guns. Four guards on the outer perimeter were dispatched with silent efficiency, their throats opened by a garrote wire or a knife in the dark before they could even utter a cry.

Tanaka led the main assault team over the garden wall. They moved across the raked gravel of the rock garden without a sound, their feet wrapped in cloth. They neutralized the guards at the house itself, a swift, brutal flurry of close-quarters combat that was over in seconds.

They slid open the paper-walled doors to the main chamber. Inside, an old man and an old woman, roused by the faint sounds of the struggle, stood in their nightclothes, holding a single lantern. The man, the governor's father-in-law, held a decorative spear he had taken from the wall, his hands trembling but his eyes defiant.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice shaky but proud. "Bandits? Robbers?"

"We are the true sons of Japan," Tanaka said, stepping into the lantern light, his face a grim mask. "And you are the family of a traitor who has sold his soul to the barbarians. You will come with us."

The old woman, whose face was a web of fine wrinkles, stepped in front of her husband, her spine ramrod straight. "We will die here in our home before we become pawns in your dishonorable games," she declared, her voice ringing with the unyielding pride of a samurai wife. "Do what you will."

Tanaka hesitated. He looked at the defiant old woman, at her fierce, unwavering eyes. He had been prepared to be ruthless, but he had not been prepared for this. To drag this matriarch away, to subject her to the hardships of a mountain camp… a line existed, even for him. He was a soldier, not a monster. Not yet.

"Leave the woman," he commanded, making a split-second decision. "Take the old man. He is enough." He looked at the defiant woman, a flicker of something almost like respect in his eyes. "Tell your traitorous son-in-law, the next time he communicates with his masters, that the Kemuri no Kiku—the Smoke Chrysanthemum—sends its regards. Tell him his father-in-law's life now depends entirely on his… cooperation. We will be in touch."

The old man struggled, but he was no match for Tanaka's strong young soldiers. They gagged him and dragged him out into the night, leaving his wife standing alone in the lantern light, her defiance now mixed with a terrible, silent grief.

As they retreated back into the mountains with their valuable hostage, dawn began to break. From their high vantage point, they spotted movement on the main road below. It was their second target of opportunity, a target that Kuroda had told them to strike if the chance arose. It was a small Qing medical convoy—two wagons laden with supplies, escorted by only four soldiers.

"Lieutenant, look," Kenji said, pointing. "Their markings… it is a medical convoy. They are healers, not soldiers."

Tanaka raised his binoculars. He could see the red emblems on the canvas covers of the wagons. He could see the men were armed only with pistols, not rifles. For a moment, he felt a pang of hesitation. This felt different. This felt wrong. But then he remembered Kuroda's cold, hard words: "There are no non-combatants in this war. Their healers patch up the soldiers who burn our villages. To destroy their medicine is to kill a hundred of their soldiers in the future."

The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, brutal pragmatism. "They are the enemy," he said flatly. "They are a part of the war machine that is crushing our homeland." He laid out the plan for the ambush. It would be quick, simple, and merciless.

They let the convoy enter a narrow, wooded stretch of the road. The attack was over in less than a minute. A single volley from the trees killed the four guards before they could even raise their pistols. The drivers, two unarmed Chinese orderlies, surrendered immediately.

Tanaka and his men swarmed the wagons. They did not harm the surviving orderlies. Instead, they systematically destroyed their cargo. Crates of bandages were torn open and thrown into the mud. Bottles of precious carbolic acid and chloroform were smashed against rocks. Surgical tools were bent and broken. Tins of opium, used for pain relief, were emptied onto the ground. They were not just destroying supplies; they were destroying the enemy's ability to show mercy to their own wounded.

Before they vanished back into the forest, Tanaka took his knife and pinned a piece of paper to the canvas side of one of the wagons. He had written a new message, a reply to the Emperor's policy of terror.

The note read: "For every peasant you execute, we will destroy a cart full of medicine. Let your wounded soldiers die screaming in the dirt. Let them curse the Dragon Emperor who cannot protect them from their pain."

The war in Kyushu had descended into a new circle of hell. It was no longer a war of soldiers, but a war of cruelty, a contest to see which side could inflict the most suffering on the other, with the people of Japan trapped in the middle of the ever-widening circle of violence.